


The Stages of Loving John Watson (Or Sherlock's Mind Catching Up to His Heart)

by Rosie_Sherlock_Watson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Happy times, M/M, Multi, Other, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock is an idiot, Sherlock is soft, john is beautful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 13:51:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14113728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosie_Sherlock_Watson/pseuds/Rosie_Sherlock_Watson
Summary: exactly what it says on the tin. Sherlock realizing the stages of his falling in love with John after he's already in love with him.





	The Stages of Loving John Watson (Or Sherlock's Mind Catching Up to His Heart)

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written a fic in awhile, so I hope this isn't too trashy. I mean to write something kinda soft and sweet and adorably dorky. Don't know if I did well, but here it is lol.

Sherlock didn't really notice he was falling in love with John until it was over and done with. Having no experience with such things, he had actually seen, felt, and evaluated each step he had taken toward the inevitable end that was loving John Watson; yet he hadn't known what exactly it was he was observing within himself. It happened in four stages.

 

** Stage One: John’s Heart **

Sherlock had noticed John’s heart immediately upon meeting him. Any fool would see a military man just from a glance. Queen, country, and all other such trivial nonsense would be where most would stop their assessment. But add in his sister’s (Sherlock still cringed when he thought about how he had missed that) drinking habits, his absent-minded attitude toward his leg while standing, and his medical training? A very different picture formed.

John was not only a fighter, but most likely a protector, provider, and a caretaker. An interesting combination to go into a warzone. He was of a curious mind, as proven by the fact that he had not immediately told Sherlock to piss off upon hearing the man’s deductions. He had piqued Sherlock’s interest, and he had found himself hoping that John would live up to the honor.

He did.

Within 24 hours John had completely proven himself worthy of Sherlock’s time and brain space. He had met the mysterious man at Baker Street, enthusiastically followed him to a crime scene, marveled at his deductive powers both in the car and at the site of a murder, survived Mycroft’s ridiculous attempts at intimidation, defended him to the police (even though he was wrong), very determinedly tracked him down after he was kidnapped, and killed a man for him. All of this because he did not write off their odd, 10-minute encounter from the previous day as a strange but essentially useless meeting.

John’s heart had only shown itself more and more throughout their time together. Sherlock used to worry. How dangerous was it that John was so trusting? Did John really know anything about Sherlock, enough to be living with him after such a short amount of time in each other’s presence? A literal day. But John’s blind trust had not shown itself since his meeting Sherlock, leading him to believe that John must have come to some conclusion that validated the events of that first day, and every day since. Willing to die in a pool by Sherlock’s side, trusting Sherlock to save him from a monstrous hound, to hold a gun to his head after he was being marked a fugitive on every news station in London. To follow Sherlock to a train car full of explosives even while he was supposed to be hating him.

For trusting Sherlock with his daughter after he caused the death of his wife.

He felt himself tense at the thought. He looked over at John, watched him feed Rosie some surprisingly pleasant mush that was meant to taste like squash. He relaxed a little and felt the corner of his mouth tugging up into a small smile despite his express commands not to. John looked up and caught his eyes. Sherlock watched as his mouth did the same, skin crinkling slightly around his eyes as it did so.

 

_“What is it?”_

_“You’re spilling mush on the baby.”_

 

** Stage Two: John’s Mind **

John was deceivingly smart. No where near Sherlock, of course, but his soft jumpers and average face would have one thinking that he was a boring man of average intelligence. Sherlock had quickly learned that, while John was not actually a moron, he was still lacking. However, what he lacked he made up for in being very _interesting_. People were rarely ever _interesting_. Yes, interesting things happened to them, but never had the people themselves earned any of Sherlock’s attention for longer than a few seconds. Sherlock and John had been living together for months and he had not tired of observing John, nor had John stopped surprising him.

He had made up his mind about John’s intelligence during the Andrew West case. As much as he had wanted to slight Mycroft, the case was rather good. Too good to give up, even if it meant pleasing his brother. However, he found more enjoyment in watching John solve the case then he would have in solving it himself. John would be on the path to obvious and boring, but then he would ask a question. The right question, as Sherlock often said. Every now and then, John would show that he could think along the lines of slightly superior intelligence, and Sherlock just couldn’t bring himself to interrupt.

Watching John that day, watching him stare at the tracks as though he could see the answer right there, but his mind was too out of focus to really make sense of it, Sherlock had smiled to himself. John was so much smarter than the common man. So much more fascinating. Sherlock had already let John into his life, had already considered him a friend and cared about him. Now, though, he was proud of John. He didn’t know if these new found observational skills were a product of his relationship with Sherlock or if it was something already in him, looking for a reason to be put to use. Either way, now was the time to intervene. John had solved the main portion, now Sherlock would put the story together for him. He couldn’t be help but smile as he remembered how happy John had been to solve his first case on his own.

 

_“Sherlock, are you actually smiling at whatever experiment you’re attending to now?”_

_“Yes, John. Very interesting, very promising.”_

**S tage Three: John’s Presence**

It was after Sherlock’s “death”. It was the two years spent away from John that made Sherlock realize how much he had come to depend on the man. John quickly became the voice in his head, reminding him of annoyingly banal things.

_Eat now, Sherlock._

_For God’s sake, use gloves when handling chemicals!_

_You won’t be able to solve the case on 30 minutes of sleep, bloody idiot._

John was there every time he had to hold a gun, had to pull the trigger. He heard the shattering of a university window instead of a gunshot.

He found himself missing the oddest things. The humidity in the bathroom every time he went in after John had just finished showering, the sight of hideous oatmeal colored jumpers, the sound of groceries being dumped on the table and the accompanying lecture about the necessity of food and eating. He missed how John would bring him tea throughout the day, somehow just knowing that it was exactly what Sherlock had wanted in that moment, and he missed pretending not to notice how it got there.

He missed _John._

Being extracted from Serbia had been one of the best moments of his life. Not because it meant and end to running, killing, and more immediately, the torture, but because it meant he was going home. He was going to see John. John would be overjoyed to have Sherlock back into his life, and Sherlock would do his best to hide the fact that he felt the same. He would fail, but John would pretend that he had succeeded.

What he actually got was a rather hard beating and repeated variations of the “piss off” he hadn’t received so long ago in a lab at Bart’s Hospital. None of it mattered though. A bonfire and a train car later, it was Sherlock and John again. Well, Sherlock, John and Mary.  Sherlock didn’t mind though. Figures that John would find someone as interesting as he was and stick with her.

Sherlock wasn’t sure why he needed to leave their reception early. He wasn’t sure why hearing the news of Mary’s pregnancy had ignited a spark of pain in his chest, but it wasn’t something he could afford to examine. No, John was the focus now, as it should be. He would be there for John in any capacity he was needed. Even so, when he went home that night he was more aware of the presence of the black box hiding underneath the floorboards of his bedroom than he had been since his return.

A pressure built up in his throat, and he made sure to school his expression. John was sitting directly across from him, reading the trades and unhurriedly eating a strip of bacon. He would know, he always knew, when Sherlock was spiraling into a danger mood. His grip tightened on the fork in his hand and he forced himself to breathe, to shovel some more eggs into his mouth, to be _here_ instead of _there._

_“Can you pass me the sports?”_

_“I do wish you wouldn’t waste precious brain space on such rubbish.”_

_“Shut up, Sherlock.”_

** Stage Four: John **

He had noticed John before. Within the first year he discovered that with the revelation that John's limp was, in fact, psychosomatic, and the fact that his new life now consisted of running after criminals, it would behoove John to take up some form of a fitness routine. John, it seemed, had also come to this conclusion. He had walked out of the bathroom after coming back from a run. Later on, Sherlock would be able to think enough to realize that John had forgotten his clothes in his gym bag by the front door. But at that moment, all he could notice was that John was wearing nothing but a towel and padding quietly past him to the door to get his bag. Sherlock assumed that John had hoped he would be too busy staring at some organism under his microscope. His hair had still been dripping, and he was flushed from his face down to his chest. Whether from the heat or embarrassment, Sherlock would never know.

 

*****

 

A while later, a letter would come in the mail announcing a reunion of some sort. Sherlock took no real note of this at the time, only remembering it because it had brought on the odd expression of worry and happiness that was usually only associated with Sherlock himself. What he hadn’t realized was that this sort of thing was attended in uniform. He had heard unfamiliar footsteps coming down the steps from John’s room. Same pace as John’s but much heavier. His jaw had clenched, and he eyes skated around the room.

_If he’s coming down this slowly then John is already incapacitated. There are exactly 15 items in this room that can be used as a weapon, 7 that are lethal._

_If John is dead, so is this man._

Sherlock stood and braced himself.

Then he stopped breathing.

John was wearing a tan shirt, tight across his chest, and army fatigue pants tucked into tan army boots. He looked nervous, his hand clenching and unclenching in rapid succession.

“What do you think, Sherlock? I wasn’t sure whether to go with the full captain uniform or the soldier.”

The fact that John had yet another military uniform was registered and labeled in the back of Sherlock’s mind as Very Interesting Information, but at the forefront of it was John standing, unconsciously, at attention while looking for all the world like he’d rather be in his jumpers with a cup of tea. A physical representation of the fighter and the provider. Sherlock very studiously stared at the wall besides John’s head. Looking away completely would indicate that something was wrong. Sherlock would rather not indicate that without having an explanation for himself.

“If the goal is to fit in with your old army buddies, then that should do fine. Going in an outfit that outranks them would put them ill at ease and reflect badly on your ego.”

John nodded to himself and took a deep breathe. “I’ll be back in a few hours, Sherlock. Try not to burn the flat down while I’m gone, yeah?”

 

*****

 

The next time he noticed John, it was mid-afternoon. The previous night, or rather, very early that morning, John and Sherlock had just gotten home after a very fascinating serial killer case. Sherlock trudged up the steps to unlock the door while John retrieved a sleeping Rosie from a very awake Mrs. Hudson. He never understood why she insisted on berating him over his sleeping habits, when she was always awake at the same ungodly hours that he was.

They were exhausted. The case had spanned two weeks, which means both Sherlock and John were running on the fumes of everything essential for human survival. Food, sleep, energy. John held Rosie in his arms and had just planned to sit down on the couch for a moment, just to get his bearings. Sherlock sat beside him, wishing to do much the same thing.

He wasn’t sure when they closed their eyes, but when he opened them again, sunlight was streaming through their window and hitting Rosie’s and John’s face. Rosie’s face was round still, her lips pink, and her hair blonde like her mother’s. Sherlock noticed the strands of gold in her curly hair, and the golden tint of her eyelashes. He had always known this, but he was once again reminded that Rosie was a beautiful baby girl and would be a source of much stress for both her father and himself.

His eyes drifted up to John’s sleeping face. He saw those same gold lashes, the same gold streaks in his graying hair. _Beautiful like her father_.

He was startled by the thought at first but couldn’t shake it from his mind. It wasn’t something he had ever considered before, but now that it was there, he couldn’t deny that it was true. He wasn’t sure when he had come to that conclusion, or how long it had been building up in him, but suddenly he was quite content to just stay there and watch the two of them for as long as he could. _My family_.

That thought _hadn’t_ surprised him. It had been looming, half formed, in his mind for some time now. They were his family, and sitting here with them, he was filled with the irrational urge to somehow make this known to everyone. _They are mine, and I am theirs._ Sherlock was a genius, a scientist, and all-around incapable of letting any line of inquiry, of interest to him, go unanswered. So, he sat there, and watched the two of them while he thought about his little family, and the stages of his interest in John Watson. When Rosie began to stir, he moved her from John’s chest to his own and gently rubbed her back as she blearily blinked her baby blue eyes open.

It was no secret that Sherlock loves Rosie. Everyone who actually knew Sherlock was aware of this. And even though he loved seeing the surprise on the Yarders’ faces whenever they saw him with her, he was often worried that as Rosie got older, she would also experience the same doubt as the Yarders did. Sherlock couldn’t love her any more than if she was actually his, and he hoped that the combined brains of John Watson and Mary Morstan would give her enough intelligence to see that. He, of course, would cultivate it where he could.

He briefly wondered if her internal clocked was wired to John’s, because shortly after Rosie started moving, he woke and smiled sleepily at the sight of Sherlock and Rosie.

“Hey.” John said, sitting up and looking around the room as if wondering why he was here and not in his bed.

“We fell asleep on the sofa. Rosie just woke up.”

“Right. Yeah, right.” He looked at Rosie, still wriggling slowly in Sherlock’s arms, and reached over to lay a hand on her head. “Right, then. Tea, Sherlock?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Sherlock watched as he ambled into the kitchen and set about putting on the kettle, and deduced what John planned on making for breakfast based on the way his body turned toward various cabinets.

He felt Rosie’s restless weight in his arms. He heard John trying not to bang pans on the stove.

_I love them. I love both of them._

“Sherlock, you are actually going to eat this morning. I can’t remember the last time I saw you eat anything larger than an apple.”

_I’m in love with him._

“Sherlock. Eating. Yes?”

_I’m in love with John Watson._

“Of course, John. Doctor’s orders, wouldn’t dare go against those.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope that didn't suck too bad. Comments and Kudos are lifeblood.


End file.
